Perpetual Struggle
by Caldazar Atreides
Summary: Two-shot. This is an attempt at a battle sequence between two pokémon, a trial run before I try something similar for my main story, "Call of the Trainer". The title represents all the pointless and never-ending battles we fight. Tell me what you think.
1. Darkness

**A/N:** This is a little story I made to try my hand at a battle sequence. Reviews are appreciated, because this is an experiment to gage YOUR reactions. Yes, readers, I'm talking about you.

Don't look too seriously into the premise of this one-shot-turned-two-shot. Like I said, it's just an experiment. The theory is to not make Pokémon battling a mystical experience through the use of vague excuses like magic, supernatural agents, or even_ energy_, but more rational. Everything should have and explanation.

Comments should please be directed at my descriptions of the fight and not the setting or characters. Look for any interruptions in the flow, and give suggestions on how to improve it.

Lastly, please don't ask me who's fighting whom here. While I don't mention names, it should be fairly obvious.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Pokémon. Not sure if I would ever really want to. If I was ever offered to work for Satoshi Tajiri, Nintendo, or the Pokémon Company (extremely unlikely, of course), I'd settle for creative licensing rights. At least then I'd get paid. Until then, this is all unofficial and strictly for my own amusement. Well, yours too, if you want.

**Warning:** Chapter contains swearing (F-bombs and female dogs for those who want a laugh) and sci-fi violence.

This chapter covers approximately four pages and 1,609 words long (not including titles). Devour at your leisure.

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**Perpetual Struggle**

**Part One: Darkness**

Focus. Align the "threads." Let his aiùa call to them. He could feel the power, teetering just on the edge of control, waiting to be let loose. That feeling of the philotic strings bending inward, forming a small gravity well that pulled at his paws.

Force is the essence of Fighting, what separates his type from the original Normal. Previous move adaptations were contrasted based upon how and from where the force is exerted. For this particular move, Aura Sphere, force is achieved not from his own physical strength, but that of his will ― his aiùa. By extending the dominion of his aiùa, his single guiding philote, his _soul_, he can manipulate lesser ones, albeit not to the degree a Psychic or Ghost could.

That is the essence of mass without matter, the force for a blow which can be struck without the need for physical contact; what the humans call a "special attack." The source of all matter in the universe was, literally, at the tip of his claws.

Still concentrating, he let loose another string. This philote was stronger than the others, 'though still not near as strong as his aiùa. This one would seek out his adversary and latch on, a guide for the swelling mass. It would need to be dead-on, for his opponent was shifty. She could manipulate philotes too, and her mastery was greater than even his. She could control the philotes of her _body_, even enough to drag her whole being Outside.

His opponent was darkness, of the Disaster line. She was a shifty adversary who used the shadows to attack with overwhelming ferocity.

But he was _Spirit_, a being of Aura descedency. There was nothing he couldn't find, inside or Out.

He let the mass formed without matter fly. Through his unique sense, he knew she was moving, trying to dodge.

Useless. The Sphere was already tied to her aiùa.

The yip in the darkness confirmed the hit. With his adversary down, he leapt forward, quickly closing the distance.

Had he been forced to rely on his vision he would have been dead long before he even got his bearings. The place was pitch-black, without a shred of light. Another time this would have worried him. Current circumstances, however, were keeping him a little preoccupied.

What he did know was of little help. From the feeling beneath his paws he knew that the terrain was rocky and tilted like a shallow cliff. The air carried a trace of humidity, or so his nose had told him. It wasn't stale, for he could feel the occasional breeze. He must be fairly high up as well, for the air was somewhat thin.

Perhaps he was on a mountain.

He dashed the remainder, his balance in check with each step. His target was just ahead, a little higher up, near the end of a ledge. He jumped, quickly drawing back his right paw, ready to throw forward, while aiming with his left. Force Palm, he's heard it called.

He cleared the edge of the cliff, now only a few feet away from his foe. The white canine was back on her feet, 'though still dazed from his earlier attack. He couldn't ask for better circumstances.

His left paw was mere inches from the nose of the white canine, occupying the entirety of her red field of vision. His footing secure, he twisted his body, adding more force to his right arm. The right paw was already moving forward, coming to crush the adversary's head into her neck, hopefully into her ribcage as well.

That's when stars burst in his vision, and pain exploded from his lower jaw.

_The bitch just s__uckered me!_ That thought rang like a foghorn throughout his mind. She hit him before he could hit her! He staggered backward, head in paws, trying to recover from the blow. Too bad she didn't give him the chance.

She charged at him from the front, head raised, her jet-black horn poised to come slashing down. In his dazed state, he wouldn't be able to dodge.

So he chose to defend. Reflexively, he adjusted his stance so that his paws, which were already up nursing his jaw, crossed in a parry, the spikes on the backs easily voiding the blow.

His head clear enough to focus, the azule fighter pushed back and away, forcing the other creature to create some distance. But the ledge was narrow, so the distance wasn't far.

He was ready to work in close range now. Past training worked his muscles, and he assumed a new stance. Feet spread, and paws at level with his chest, he was ready to Rush.

The spikes on the back of his paws weren't just for show, they were a carbon alloy: very strong, and grew like fingernails grow on humans. They were extensions of his own skeletal structure, the cause of his unique typing. And it was time to put them to good use.

He lunged, the backs of his paws forward to deal the most damage. When he got close enough, he jabbed with his left, hoping to get her to cringe.

She wasn't there. There wasn't even a whisp of her.

At first he didn't understand. To give him credit, this has his first time fighting one of the species. What knowledge he had wasn't exactly useful in the split instances of engagement. That was what training is for.

This time she attacked from behind, her claws extended to rake his back. He could not have detected that, but then, Faint Attack was designed to be unavoidable. He yelped in pain as claw tore through fur and flesh.

Enraged, he quickly spun, trying to backhand her with a broad right swing, but she ducked under it. He growled, annoyed by the games she was playing. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a straight fight! At least then he could overpower her. At the rate things were going now, she would make mincemeat out of him before he could even catch her!

His swing was entirely concentrated behind his right arm. He should have followed through with his left, but the pain had distrupted the rhythm of his Rush. He needed time to bring it up and ready to crash down on his foe, time she used to lung on top of him, jaws aiming for his throat.

Seeing this, he instinctively leaned backward while trying to reposition his arm, hoping to bring it between her maw and his jugular. His carbon-steel bones could withstand even the force of a Crunch delivered from an Iron Snake. The muscle wasn't nearly so resilient, so he wouldn't be able to use the arm for a while, but at least it would heal. Eventually. Right now though, his life seemed more important than a couple agonizing weeks nursing a mangled appendage.

As it turned out, the backpedaling may have saved his life. His elbow, which was not yet in position, caught her along the side of her head and forced it the the side. She missed his neck, instead grazing the side of his head. He could feel her saliva smear across his cheek. Her horn, which was positioned on the top-right side of her head, nicked his ear, the blade sharp enough to cut it almost in half. Fortunately, he was too terrified by the situation to notice. In either case, he wasn't dead yet.

Of course, she was still on top of him. Fucking life wouldn't give him a break.

He quickly got his left paw under her and against her neck to try to keep her jaws and blade away. His right arm was still free, so he clenched that paw into a fist and brought it up in a hook. Fortunately, the distance was just right. The spike connected with the side of her head, blowing her off him. Now free, the azule canine then rolled onto his belly and pushed himself upright. He assumed the Rush stance, ready to counter whatever devious craft the ashen canine was ready to use.

But there wasn't any. The canny creature wasn't even on the ledge. He extended the will of his aiùa, searching among the philotes the form of his opponent.

She could just as easily be Outside. She had exercised this maneuver on him twice before. The most recent had been when she appeared behind him to slash and rend at his back, but the first time was back when the engagement began. It had been her opening move, the one she used to try to catch him off-guard when she started this fight. But that time he had been cautious, wary, struggling to detect even the faintest sign of life. He had just arrived in this strange place, and did not know what dangers it held. Just how did he get here anyhow?

He shook his head, clearing himself from such thoughts. They were questions for another time. He refocused that brainpower, concentrating on his current objective: finding and eliminating the threat.

The pattern of her aiùa was easily discernable amongst the rock walls. She was on another ledge, several tiers down. She appeared to be pawing her face.

He'd injured her. Good.

Wiping away the saliva she had left on his cheek, he bounded down to the next level. Darkness was no hindrance to him, not with his "aura" ability. No matter what the obstacle, he would overcome it. No matter the challenge, he would see it through. He was Spirit, strongest son of the alpha male of the Iron Island Eastern Clan. There was nothing he couldn't do.


	2. Light

**A/N:** Well, here's the second part of my one-shot-turned-two-shot. If you're courteous enough to read and review, please direct your comments at my descriptions of the fight and not the setting or characters. Give your thoughts of my interpretation of a Pokémon battle. Suggestions on how to improve it are most welcome.

The reason this became a two-shot is because I've changed the POV. I thought it'd be interesting to see what the opposition thinks of the situation.

**Disclaimer:** I'd already disclaimed any right to the pokémon aspect of this fiction in the previous chapter, but now I have something new to add: the mantra the main character recites is quoted from the _Book of Origin_, a fictional bible of a fictional religion created by MGM for its _Stargate_ franchise.

This chapter covers approximately five pages and is 2,645 words long (not including titles). Clean your plate and DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW!

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**Perpetual Struggle**

**Part 2: Light**

_Life and Death . . ._

_Light and Darkness . . ._

_Hope and Despair . . ._

She recited the mantra her mother had taught her over and over in her mind. It helped calm her, somewhat.

The ledge she had dropped down to was wider than the previous one, but she hadn't considered this on the descent; all she had wanted then was to put as much distance between her and her pursuer as she could.

Everything had gone terribly wrong. She had hoped to finish him right off with the initial first strike, or at least injure him enough to escape and head down the mountain to, hopefully, reunite with her pack. But her opponent was relentless. He had managed to defend against her first attack and had since been pursuing her across the jagged, unfamiliar terrain.

Along that line of thought, how did she get here anyhow? The last thing she remembered was being chased. They — the human and his pokémon trackers — had followed her into the woods. She had been trying to get back to the lake, hoping to stay ahead of them long enough to reunite with the pack, but somewhere along the way she got ensnared in this entangling fog; a smothering mist that disoriented her and disrupted her senses. The next thing she knew, she was here, on a mountain getting her tail handed to her by a Fight-type who didn't know the meaning of "give it up."

The upright canine was tough, as his lineage would prove. He was also skilled — a capable fighter. She was being pushed to use all her hunting skill, which wasn't much, just to keep this far ahead. She had only recently been introduced into the pack's coordinated hunting patterns, just having become old enough to start assuming tougher responsibilities the hunters typically shouldered. That was what she was — a hunter. Her clan did not produce any warriors, for it was against their nature to make war. Against such a foe, she didn't know how much longer she would be able to hold out.

She had only seconds to prepare herself before the azure adversary crashed onto the opposite end of the ledge, the impact carrying enough force to leave a brutally obvious dent in the ground. The groan of protest given by the rock after the concussion was so loud that it could be felt as well as heard, and the rock continued to shudder for several seconds afterward. The aura-user paused. She could not miss this chance.

Taking in a deep breath, she broke her ties to the philotes of this world, leaving only the pattern of her aiùa to remain, and jumped Outside.

Faint Attack — a Dark-attribute maneuver that never failed to put the user in a position over their opponent. But however much it was designed to be unavoidable, _uncounterable_, even it had its limits.

The first was range. While theoretically it works under the same principles as the Psychic move Teleport, moving the user temporarily Outside to a universal point before returning to real space in a separate location, even the most proficient user could only move themselves a stride or so in any direction from their starting point. Usually this was enough to turn the tables and get the upper hand in a fight, but it was practically useless against a well-trained aura-user.

The second flaw was one of duration. The attack was not instantaneous. While time spent Outside can barely be measured in fractions of a second, there was a brief time-lapse between disintegration and re-emergence. Against someone who could track by sensing her spirit, this split second would leave more than enough time to react. So, in order for this to work, she would need a bit of luck and a combination of either hesitance or carelessness on her opponent's part.

Not so sure about the latter, but so far, she had been Super Lucky.

She re-emerged below and slightly to the left behind her contender. She didn't want to be high enough to get caught in his backswing — those spikes hurt! Granted, she hadn't been impaled by them yet, but even a glancing blow would be enough to knock her off her feet.

His eyes were closed, but he knew she was there. He didn't even flinch when she re-appeared, instead sending the ready left arm in a wide backswing. But she was already prepared — under it. It overshot, the warrior's arm barely grazing her scalp.

The muscles in her legs were tense. She was like a coiled spring. She had been ready for him to move, to over-swing again. Now his body was spread and vulnerable to attack. It was as perfect as she could get.

But she didn't see the follow-through, how his right paw came crashing downwards in the wake of his left, to meet her oncoming lunge. For her perfect position, it was the perfect Feint.

O~~~h crap. This was not going to be pleasant.

The cobalt coyote's right jab connected just above her left eye. She had thicker fur there than normal, but it was hardly any protection against a blow that could crush bricks. Her pounce abruptly stopped there, where her head and his paw collided. Off-balance, she fell into a heap on the ground, her vision swimming.

. . .

The seconds crept onward. One can never tell time well after receiving what was most likely a concussion, but for her, the seconds seemed agonizingly long. The world was tumbling all around and she couldn't get her bearings.

_Why hadn't he finished me off?_ she wondered. Faintly, she shifted one of her forepaws to claw underneath, to lift herself up, but she couldn't feel anything. Had they gone numb? No, she would at least be able to experience some resistance. So, if she couldn't feel anything—

Reality hit then, and it hit _hard_. She almost cried out when she hit the ground, far below from where she fell. Her chest ached, and her foreleg . . . her left foreleg was aflame in pain.

Dazed, she struggled to lift her head, settling for tilting it enough to gaze upward. The last blow her adversary made must have unsettled the ledge enough to cause it to collapse. She had fallen, from what appeared to be a great height, onto a ledge almost directly below.

Oh, she hated this. She never liked to fight, at least not needlessly, but this was her _life_ on the line. Death is not something one could just shrug off. Let's face it, shrugging is nigh impossible when stricken with _rigor mortis_.

She kept up that pleasant thinking as she struggled to clear her mind. With wobbly legs, she got to her feet. If she couldn't stand up, she wouldn't survive what was coming. Her left foreleg protested the strain, but it held. It didn't seem to be broken, which was the first good news to date.

A _whomph_ followed by a puff of air had announced his arrival. She scowled at him, a fool too arrogant to hide his presence. Unlike him, her vision was fine. Darkness was no hindrance for those who thrived in it. It was a part of her. It belonged to her just as water to the ocean. Her kind hunted in these conditions, yet it was he who had the advantage!

Growling, and still slightly dizzy, she turned to face him. However disheveled the blow and subsequent fall had made her, the rage she felt towards her opponent gave her focus. When she first saw him, she was sure he was one of that trainer's. His kind just weren't common in this part of the land, preferring their little isolated island on the other side of the continent. However, after fighting alone for the Shadow knows how long, she wasn't so sure about that anymore.

Whatever the situation, she wasn't ready to lose. To lose meant death, and she did not want to die.

Slowly, she began to stalk him. Of course, it wasn't stalking in the literal sense of the word. He had already seen her, and knew where she was. With his strange ability, he could probably track every paw print she made.

No. The reason she was "stalking" him was to evaluate his condition.

His fur and flesh was torn in several areas, especially around the back area — her cleanest hit, but he did not look ragged or worn-out. His breathing was regular and controlled, his legs steady.

Her own condition was less than ideal. The fall had severely jaunted all of her senses, from sight to balance. She couldn't ignore them, not when she so dearly needed them. Still, it was difficult trying to sort out what was happening and what was an illusion created by her faltering senses. Maybe she really _did_ have a concussion.

Her stalking pattern was a circle, one that grew increasingly tighter with each completed cycle. Her head started to bob up and down, side to side. Her horn waved through the air, but not in a dizzying way that could be attributed to a head injury. Unknowingly, unintentionally, her base instincts had arisen, and begun the Dance that all those of her kind had performed before taking a life. Could he have seen her eyes, he would have been paralyzed by their ferocity.

Meanwhile, her focused, _conscious_ mind was straining, trying to Detect any move her opponent would make. Based upon his reserved stance, she could tell that he was trying to do the same.

She didn't know how a waiting game would turn out, but if he was stalling for time so his trainer and the other pokémon could arrive, she certainly couldn't wait. On the other hand, she didn't know if her head would get better or worse. She didn't have any experience with head injuries to gamble on that.

No choice. She couldn't wait around to find out. She would have to go for the direct kill.

Growling, she stopped pacing and turned to face him again, hopefully for the last time. She made sure that her circling ended right in front of him. She wanted to see his entire body, so no unseen appendage could catch her off-guard like last time.

No words were exchanged. Both understood the situation. She growled. He stood silent.

She lunged, closing the short gap between them in an instant, her scythe-shaped horn ready to cleave him from shoulder to hip.

He parried, catching the blade with his left back-spike. But she had stricken him hard enough that he didn't have any room to counter. He shifted his weight, trying to move out from beneath her, trying to make room to attack with his signature Fighting-style.

She pressed her attack, snapping at his right paw as he brought it around. He flinched at the move, and she exploited the moment to push his paw away.

He stepped back, intuitively setting up a guard. It was the same stance he had used earlier, before he rushed her on the narrow ledge. But it was hastily made, and too high.

She responded by headbutting him in the stomach, just below his chest spike.

Her opponent gasped, instantly winded by the blow to the diaphragm. He immediately lowered his arms to cover his stomach.

_Big mistake_.

She raked out with her claws, searing at his face and managing to score several deep cuts along his muzzle. It was her second clean hit. The cobalt canine cried out, and frantically flailed his arms in a desperate attempt to throw off his attacker.

One of the struggling limbs managed to connect with her horn, near the base at her skull. It cut him deeply, and under normal circumstances would have injured him more than her. But she was already unstable from their previous encounters.

It was just too much. What little rage she hadn't exerted out of her system in the initial rush was finally beaten out of her, and in quite a literal way. Her mind was too foggy now to think clearly, let alone see. She couldn't see her foe stand up, or even as he wiped the blood from his wounded cheek. Instead images flooded inward. Memories, perhaps, for they were too jumbled and streaked to make out. What were more important to her were the emotions the images produced, even if she didn't recognize them. From these scattered impressions she was able to discern an awareness, a sense of being.

Her name was Light. It is a curious name to be given to a creature of the Dark. Her mother had told her it was because of a peculiar gleam in her eye, a light that was not a reflection but instead a source of its own volition. It was not curiosity, mischief, or a malicious glee. The best she could do to describe it was a sublime . . . happiness.

And it was true. Light was a content creature who continually sought out pleasantness, either from her surroundings or in another being. Where there was none she liked to spread her own, even if she had no reason to. It's just the way she was.

Realizing this, Light rolled over, onto her side. Her breathing was shallow, but inside she was calm. Whatever bitterness she had held to her adversary, she let go. She couldn't carry it with her, not forever. She wasn't that type of person.

_Life and death . . . light and darkness . . . hope and despair. . . ._

The mantra, the one her mother had muttered to her, could be felt echoing in the deepest recesses of her consciousness. She let the words wash over her. Even now, they still held some comfort.

"Finally," her adversary sputtered through injured lips, "I've caught you." The first words they've shared throughout the entire engagement. Funny that they were to be the last. Blood from his jaw wound dripped onto her face, but she didn't care anymore. She was tired, and ready to sleep. Resigned, Light relaxed as much as she could while out of breath and pinned to the ground.

Life and death. Light and darkness. Hope and despair. They were each two sides of the same coin. Eternally bound, forever competing. Survival, greed, selfishness — all words to describe a reaction that at its heart was simply self-preservation.

And she, she was Darkness, yet her name was Light. Her situation was dire, yet she did not despair. This did not seem like a contradiction. Even now, she had to wonder just what that saying meant.

Her opponent brought up is paw for an in-quarter Force Palm. At this close range, it would surely crush her skull. And there was no way he could miss.

Light closed her eyes.

An eternity passed.

. . . . . .

Golden rays streamed through the mist, illuminating the craggy area that had been their battlefield. Despite her preference for the shadows, the warmth was welcome. Was she imagining this? Was this what death was like?

Her vision was clearing, just enough to see the sun creep onto the horizon. The sky, once blotted out by clouds to obscure the stars, had parted to reveal the faintest of blue firmament.

One shape stood out.

Mount Coronet. They were on Mount Coronet. Light held her breath. She wasn't far away from the pack grounds! The sun was shining over the peak, creating an eerie silhouette of a cub's cradle.

The Lucario — for that was what he was — had halted mid-way through his task. He too was similarly transfixed by the sight. He didn't seem to care that the Absol he had been at war with all night was at his mercy, even while his paw was raised for the final strike.

It all didn't matter anymore.


End file.
